


Out With a Bang

by pennywife



Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Horror, Kidnapping, Mentions of Rape, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Addiction, Size Difference, Threats of Violence, triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: It’s then, at that moment, that the thing you were trying so hard to keep hidden becomes your most powerful bargaining tool.





	Out With a Bang

You don’t know why you’re like this. You don’t know what it is that made you so insatiable; so undeniably desperate to have every hole filled at even the worst of times. You don’t know what sparked this hunger for the depraved, or why squirming around in this splinter-ridden chair is almost enough to make you come without touching yourself. All you know is that if there was ever a worse time for your urges to get the best of you, now is certainly fucking it.

You lean forward to try and watch as Chucky runs his tiny hand over a pair of bolt-cutters, your eyes widening as you suddenly feel a rush of warmth spill out against the dry cotton of your panties.

 _Like a bitch in heat,_ someone once said to you— words so true you couldn’t even resent them. With you, enough is never enough. It never has been. You’ve fucked yourself to more horror films than you can even count; pictured how surreal it would feel to have some slasher bend you over a tree in the woods behind your house, how hard your knees would shake with their blood-stained fingers rubbing in circles aroud your—

 _No._ You tell yourself firmly, suddenly panicking for a different reason entirely— as though afraid he’ll be able to smell the stench of want between your legs. _No. This isn’t the time for— Just— Just fucking no. Don’t do this now. Don’t make things worse._

It feels like a bolt of electricity bursting through your muscles, urging you to writhe and struggle in your seat. You disguise your wanton moan as a groan of anguish; praying to God he won’t be able to tell the difference.

There’s no telling what he might do to you if he finds out what kind of pervert you are. There’s no way of knowing what extra lengths he’d go through to personalize your torture, to make sure that pleasure is the farthest thing from your mind when he cuts off your airway. Someone like this, so prolific and distinguished in taking instead of giving— they don’t want their victims to lust for them. They don’t want their prey to want them. And your wanting? Well, it’s getting a hell of a lot harder to hide.

“I know who you are.” You blurt out, trying to distract yourself from the ache between your thighs.

“A lotta people know who I am, toots.” He grates out, still concentrated on the instruments laid out in front of him.

“No, I mean I—“

“I’m an _anthropomorphic doll_ for Christ’s sake. A real-life goddamned legend! Of course you know who the fuck I am.”

Your mouth hangs open stupidly, the space between your jaws suddenly empty. You can still taste the sweetness of some chemical on your lips, as though somehow stained against the back of your throat. Chloroform. That must be what it is— how something so small and conspicuous managed to bring you all the way out here without any hinderance. The last thing you remember before waking up tied to this chair was walking back to your dorm. 

Chucky waits for you to try and speak again, shoulders tense and still as he faces knee-height away from you. When you don’t he lets out a little grunt in satisfaction, returns to fidgeting around with his towel-covered stool beneath the sink.

“Now I want you to shut your pretty little mouth,” he hisses, tiny body vibrating with a bubble of laughter. “So I can decide which fuckin’ way I’m gonna kill ya.”

You try and fail to stifle the gasp that pierces its way out from behind your clenched teeth. This isn’t one of your sex-games, one of your many late-night trysts with some stranger across campus. This isn’t some primal dance or game of cat-and-mouse. This is murder— your murder. This is the end to your reality forever.

Chucky laughs wickedly in response to your tell-tale signs of fear, a simian sound that rises up high over the trailer’s busted-out vent above you. He shifts to the left ever so slightly and— holy shit this is bad. This is really fucking bad. Splayed out on that towel-covered stool is an assortment of cruel instruments you hadn’t been able to see before; ranging from pliers and a tiny scalpel all the way to a fucking butcher knife.

Oh Christ. Oh fuck, oh fucking Jesus fucking Christ.

You tell yourself to stay calm. You have to stay calm. The second you start panicking is the second this all comes to a head. You can’t let him hear you whimper again; instead you bite down on the insides of your cheeks until you taste iron, thankful you still have enough wriggle-room to dig your nails into the fleshy bottoms of your palms.

Sweat films over your body, pooling behind your knees and dripping down the valleys of your breasts. It made you whimper in the beginning, so uncomfortable and maddening in the early September heat. You’d screamed, cried; begged for a cool towel or splash of water— only to now be thankful for the moisture. The matte gray binds of tape around your bare wrists and ankles have loosened, letting your muscles rest from their strained positions at last.

“Why— Why are you doing this to me?”

“Thought you said you knew who I am.” Chucky bites back, turning slightly to show you his half-quirked brow.

“I do.” 

You pause to close your left eye as a bead of sweat trails down over it, trying desperately to think of something else to say. If you can keep him talking, you can keep him busy. Your eyes dart over every inch of the trailer, rattling your mind for something to ask it, something to hold off the unspeakable torture that’s sure to come. There’s nothing. You drop your gaze back down to your knees, and though it takes you a moment— you finally process the sight of your bare skin below your thighs.

“Before I woke up... Did you—“

“No.” Chucky all but snarls, catching your drift with unhidden disgust. “I may be a killer, but I ain’t no fuckin’ rapist.”

“Never? Not even once?”

“Not that it’s any of your fuckin’ business, but no. I have never _raped_ anyone.”

“But you kidnap them...” It almost sounds like a question when it rolls across your tongue.

You’re pretty sure you saw this in a documentary once— how your captor is more likely to let you live if he sees you as a person instead of a hunk of meat. Chucky doesn’t say anything, but you can catch the stutter in his movements. He’s thinking, processing your emotionally-driven words with that tiny sliver of humanity he keeps locked somewhere at the back of his mind. Maybe if you can keep him engaged in conversation, he’ll humanize you enough to let you go.

But oh Jesus, almost forty alleged fucking murders? That’s a lot of people who didn’t make it out of the same exact seat you’re in right now. If you’re going to make it through this alive, you had better keep fucking talking. You had better make things interesting.

“And drug them... And take off their jeans...”

“Listen here, Kiddo. I didn’t take off your pants. They _came off_ while I was getting you here.”

“I don’t know.” You try your best to shrug with your arms tied tight behind your back. “Seems a little rape-y to me.”

“You sure are mouthy.” Chucky muses, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Maybe before I start slicin’ and dicin’ I’ll do myself a favor and sew your fuckin’ trap shut.”

He glares at you out of the corner of his eye, and all the hope you had just found snuffs out like fingers against a candle-wick. There’s no pity in those glass blue eyes. There’s only evil. Dark, hungry, all-consuming evil. Vermillion. Deadly. Panic sets in, white and blinding like the roaring of water in your ears. 

Before you can stop it you blurt, “I used to— I used to touch myself,” like vomit out of your mouth.

Chucky swivels his neck around like a dog with its ears pricked. His finger taps the sharp point of the knife; impatient and intrigued all at once. It’s then, at that moment, that the thing you were trying so hard to keep hidden becomes your most powerful bargaining tool.

“I used to... fuck myself.” Your mouth goes cotton-dry. Getting out the next few words feels next to fucking impossible, mustering up as much bravado as you can find. “To pictures of you... When you were a human. Charles Lee Ray. I don’t know what it— what it was about you but...”

“So let me get this straight...” Chucky lets his weapon drop down out of his hands, turning full-body to face you for the first time since he went over to his stool. “You expect me to believe some pretty little college broad used to diddle herself to my old mugshots? Nuh-uh, Kid. Not buyin’ it.”

“No! I— I s-swear! I’ve always just... It’s my thing, y’know? Older men. Scary, dangerous men. And your voice I— I’d even fuck myself to the thought of... To the thought of...”

“Spit it out.”

“The doll.” You blurt out, feeling your face heat up. “You. As the doll.”

Now it’s his turn to be speechless. His mouth hangs open; frozen there like a glitching animatronic instead of the living, breathing voodoo-possessed vessel he truly is.

You blame having just been drugged for your nonchalantness upon seeing a toddler-sized doll walk and talk so humanly. If you were of clear body and mind you’re certain that seeing this thing plot your death right in front of you would have made you shit your panties as soon as it blinked. Instead, here you are, bartering with it; offering yourself up to it like a fucking Sunday buffet.

At last the doll breaks the silence, a scoff so loud it almost makes you flinch. “You’re offering up your pussy to save your neck? Are you—“

“Yes.”

Silence. Chucky drops his face to the side, dumbfounded again. He raises a rubber hand to scratch at the back of his head, shaking it slowly before looking back up at you.

“Let me go,” you repeat, heartfelt, “and I’ll fuck you. I’ll let you fuck me any way you want— and I’ll love every single minute of it.”

“What makes you so sure I won’t just kill you anyways after I’ve gotten mine?”

“Nothing. I have no idea whether or not you’ll actually let me go. That’s not the— That’s not the point. Well... That’s not the only point... Like I said, I know who you are. I’m not like the other girls you bring back—“

Chucky sneers. “Yeah. I’ll say.”

“— here... To this place... I have an addiction... And I fuck like a rabbit. It’s all I ever want— all I’ve been thinking about since you strapped me to this chair. I need it... and if tonight is my last night on earth, I’d at least like to go out with a bang.”

He’s still staring at you as if you’re speaking in a foreign language, hands and fingers now hanging limply at his side. He cocks his head before shaking it again; slow and uneasymovements as he takes a step forward.

“You some kinda fuckin’ nymphomaniac?”

“I’ve been called that.” You squirm around unconsciously in your seat. “But no one uses that word anymore.”

He laughs in a way that reminds you of a howl, so loud it almost hurts. “Jesus Christ I don’t— I can’t fucking believe this. You’re really gonna let a serial-killing doll— who you have never fucking met before in your life— rail you out in some fuckin’ trailer.”

“Yep.” You pull your lip between your teeth and chew it, heart galloping in your chest.

“You got crabs or somethin’?” Chucky narrows his eyes.

“What? N-No.”

“Warts? Herpes? AIDS?” He takes another step, close enough now that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted. “Gonorrhea? Syphilis? Scabies? The clap?”

“Pretty sure ‘the clap’ and ‘gonorrhea’ are the same thing.”

Chucky jerks back in disgust.

You let out a sigh, “Yes. I’m all clean.”

There’s nothing holding him back from you now, yet still he hesitates; staring up at you with unveiled suspicion. His nose scrunches up, lips pulled back over his hand-carved teeth in what almost looks like a snarl. The seconds tick on as he stands there, studying you.

“I ain’t gonna fuckin’ untie you.”

“Good.” You smile, because your life now depends on you being as compliant as humanly possible. “I wouldn’t want you to anyway.”

There. Bingo. A smirk graces his face, your first sign that this is working— that this is actually going to fucking happen. You’re still almost painfully aware that it could change its mind and kill you at any moment, but the promise of pleasure is already enough to have you dripping. You squirm again in your seat, wishing more than anything that he’d free one of your hands and just let you finish.

“My equipment’s not exactly what it used to be,” Chucky begins, lightly pressing his palms down against the tops of your thighs and sliding them curiously over your skin. “But you know what they say—“

“It’s not the size that counts.”

“—It’s what you do with it.” 

The doll’s eyes bore into your own, searching for any hint of repulsion or deceit as he reaches forward to touch as much bare flesh as he can. Rubber stretched over bone, its fingers tickle madly when they glide over the sensitive inner-corners or your knees. It feels like a test, almost like he’s simply waiting for you to fail. He expects you to pull away in abhorrence when things go too far; for him to grab that butcher-knife and rush it across your neck when you scream that you just can’t fucking do this.

Then he sees it, eye-level with the drenched fabric covering your cunt, and at last he believes the truth in what you’ve told him. That you want this. That you need this.

“Jesus, Lady.” Chucky mutters under his breath, “And I thought _Tiff_ had issues.”

There’s not much he can do to you in this position— ass pressed flat against your seat and bound there. Alarm sets in when you realize he’s now aware of this too, afraid he’ll decide this isn’t worth the risk.  

“One of my ankles first.” You offer, squirming around in your seat. “You don’t have to untie me all at once... Just do one limb at a time. Untie my— my ankle, and then tie my wrist to it. Then the same with the other— Yeah. Like that.”

The ginger doll runs its scalpel over the bind around one of your ankles before reaching behind itself for a thick roll of duct-tape.

“Make one wrong move and I’ll slice your Goddamn Achilles.” Chucky warns darkly, and you believe him.

You stay perfectly still. Compliant. Excited. You all but practically tape your wrists to your ankles yourself, letting it reposition you into an almost pretzel-like manner on the stained floor of the trailer. Like a cockroach you lie there, legs bent and spread; arms stretched uncomfortably out towards your feet. You couldn’t escape like this even if you wanted to.

And the second you feel the scalpel scrape over the edge of your panties? You’re definitely sure you don’t want to.

It’s too much of a strain to hold your head up to see what he’s doing. When you drop your neck back down he cuts your panties open with a soft snapping sound. The same air that had been hot on your face now rushes cool against the exposed flesh of your cunt. You can feel his eyes on you, staring. He reaches forward, swiping his tiny thumb over one of your swollen lips and spreading it back. He’s inspecting you— as if he hasn’t seen or touched a woman like this in a very long time.

“Fucking dripping.” Chucky murmurs, almost as if he’s in awe.

You’ve done this enough times with enough men to no longer feel ashamed or nervous. This is nothing more than a familiar dance to you; one in which you now know every step. Take off your panties? Check. Lie down on your back? Done. Spread your legs and wait for him to make a move? Task in current progress.

You know before he’s even undone the clasps of his overalls that the doll’s anatomy must come with at least some limitations. Its hands too small to please you, mouth dry and filled with hardened rubber and plastic. There’ll be no foreplay, no fucking with its fingers or its tongue. He’ll go straight to it. He’ll stick his cock inside of you without a word or breath of warning; and he’ll fuck you until he’s had his fill. 

A shudder dances its way up your spine. You crane your neck to peek down at him; hands now pressed flat against the bottoms of your thighs. You can see the hem of his pin-striped shirt pulled up above his navel, overalls dropped down around his shoes.

“Please.” The word slips out of your lips like drool; the searing ache between your legs enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Please just... Just...”

“You wanna know what I would do with you if I had my old body back?”

And then it’s happening. Chucky pushes himself as deep inside of you as he can possibly go. When the warm rubber draped over his hips presses flush against the junction where your ass and thighs meet you can’t help but let out a desperate whine. It isn’t enough— isn’t deep enough to reach that swollen patch of nerves inside of you. He pulls himself out only to slide in home once again, and the absence of pain is the most excruciating torture you’ve ever felt. 

“I’d rail the living shit out of you— bruise your fucking cervix... Might have even snapped your neck with my bare hands after I was done with you.”

You can’t tell for certain whether or not he’s on his knees or just standing, practically small enough to fuck you either way in this position. Its pace quickens, tiny hips thumping feverishly against your ass.

“I’d wear this tight little pussy out.” Chucky hisses, concentrating on watching himself slide quickly in and out of you.

The doll’s words are empty, prideful; knowing full-well he’s taking so much more than he could ever possibly give you in this body. It’s so small, strokes so disappointingly shallow. By now you’re practically sobbing, tears trailing down the sides of your face from the frustration— wanting to come from this, needing to come from this— but unable to fucking get there.

Tiny cackles and grunts spill out from Chucky’s lips as he thrusts at an animal-like pace, almost as if he still can’t believe this is actually fucking happening. Its tiny carved fingers move to rest at the lowest part of your belly, dull nails pressing little crescents into your skin.

“Harder. D-Deeper. Please. As deep as you can go.”

It’s not that it doesn’t feel good. It does. It feels fucking _amazing,_ but it just isn’t enough. It’s like taking a sip when you’re parched, a single bite of food after a fast. You dig your fingers into the flesh of your ankles, squeezing your eyes shut as tight as they can go. You try to clench, writhe, squirm; anything to feel more of what it’s giving you.

It’s nothing; but when he presses his palm down flat against your clit, it suddenly becomes too much. Sound rips out from your throat before you can stop it, a loud sob deafened by the roaring of your own heartbeat.

Chucky almost stops. His face twists briefly into a glare of confusion before he feels it, the almost painful spasming of muscles around his cock. It’s the sudden realization of what’s happening to you, what he’s made happen to you; that becomes enough to send him into a frenzy.

His whole body seems to be working in time to urge his movements on, chasing his own end like a hound after a rabbit. The stitched and scared lines of the doll’s face pull together; a grimace of pride and effort that seem to become almost furious before his eyes slide shut. He doesn’t still inside of you, but rather fucks you all the way through it; stopping only once his knees begin to shake.

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from squealing, horrified and elated with what you’ve just done. You did it. You finally fucked a real-life fucking horror villain— one of the most notorious in all of fucking New Jersey. 

At last Chucky pulls himself out of you with ease, a warm rush of liquid following the absence of his cock. He came inside of you. A part of you knows you should feel alarmed, abhorred; but instead you feel only exhaustion.

Eyes closed, chest still heaving, you can already feel the burn in your shoulders from the angle your hands are taped to your feet. You’re vaguely aware that he’s redressing himself, clasping together his jumper and shaking the stiffness from his tiny limbs. Then, there’s the clanking of metal against metal, and your entire body seizes up in fright.

You can’t see it, but you can hear it; the sound of Chucky messing around with what you’re sure are his instruments of torture. His shoes scrape against the filthy ground of the trailer, creeping steadily towards you. A tiny fist, clenching tightly around something goes out toward your face and you scream— jerking wildly away.

“Calm down it’s— it’s just a fucking cigarette! Jesus Christ, kid.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, still wriggling in terror when your brain processes the sight of the tiny tan and white stick in his hand. 

“Almost gave me a fucking heart attack.” Chucky growls, obviously taken by surprise by the deafening sound of your shriek.

You stare at him, dumbfounded, frozen in place. The doll shakes his head before shoving the cigarette between his own lips instead, working it over to to the corner of his mouth.

“Now, I’m slowly reaching towards the scalpel; but I’m not gonna fuckin’ hurt you— so don’t you go _screaming_ again.”

Still unable to speak, you hurriedly nod your head to let him know you understand.

In quick, practiced movements Chucky slices open the binds around your wrists and ankles. You let out a hiss before sitting up onto your ass, rubbing the tender red marks the tape left behind. To say you’re going to be sore tomorrow for class would be a fucking understatement. You can already feel the aching in your joints, hyperextended and posed for far too long.

Chucky clears his throat, cutting through your thoughts of self-pity. You jerk your head over towards him and he stares back at you expectedly.

“So c-can— am I— am I free to go?” Your voice is hoarse, dry; like you expect this to just be some part of his sick intention to still kill you.

To your surprise, the doll nods his head.

“But don’t try to pull anything once I let you outta here. No goin’ to the police or any of that shit... Not like they’d be able to help you out anyway.”

You don’t hesitate. You leap to your feet, rushing towards the door of the trailer without giving it any thought at all. How the hell you’re going to make it all the way back home bare-ass-naked from the waist down you’re not sure, but the sweet promise of survival is enough to make you want to do a somersault down the steps leading outside.

“Hey, Kid.”

Chucky’s words stop you as soon as you set foot on the grass outside, door held open by your body. You turn around towards him, half-expecting a thrown axe to the skull— but find him completely empty-handed.

“Don’t forget— I know exactly where you live.” He gives you a parting nod, reaching into the pocket of his outfit for a small silver lighter.

“Good.” You give him a grin, unable to hold it back. “You’ll know exactly where to find me again.”


End file.
